


sugar feeds yeast

by bossymarmalade (maggie), maggie



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Canon Jewish Character, Hand Jobs, M/M, tolfie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-22 11:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21301223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggie/pseuds/bossymarmalade, https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggie/pseuds/maggie
Summary: tommy has his ways of coaxing out sweetness, which it turns out, alfie's already familiar with.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 15
Kudos: 125





	sugar feeds yeast

**Author's Note:**

> slightly modified from its posting on tumblr [tommyplum](https://tommyplum.tumblr.com/).

There’s a moment before he commits himself to this course of action when Tommy realizes with perfect clarity that he doesn’t know who else Alfie fucks, if he fucks at all, and if he does, what he fucks them for. 

But that doesn’t stop him from pushing up against the other man in one of the dark corners of his Camden Town warehouse when they’re alone (almost alone; there are guards, of course, but well out of earshot and Tommy after all is the living embodiment of being quiet when one needs to be) and breathing in the scent of Alfie’s rum and rising bread. Swelling into the closeness of their bodies together, rolls in a fucking pan, they are.

Alfie only looks at him, with those deceptively faraway eyes, like a hound when it switches eyebrows at you, but he doesn’t tell Tommy to fuck off. Yet. There's always a _yet_ appended to any mental statement that Tommy makes about Alfie Solomons, but, well ... _yet_. Instead he makes a rolling barrel noise in his chest when Tommy reaches for Alfie’s trousers to slip his hand inside and Tommy takes that noise as – if not quite encouragement – at least an interest in seeing where this will go. 

As for Tommy himself, well. Sex and violence have always been the most natural tools to hand in his arsenal when it comes to business with women and men; he’s not averse to flipping the order around should the need arise. Adaptability, now, that’s the _best_ tool he has and he wields it better than anybody.

Alfie’s cock fits in his palm half-hard and oh yes, interested, and the corners of Alfie’s mouth divot when Tommy rubs the pad of his thumb over that already-revealed head of it, a little bit fascinated, a lot turned on. That's something he only lets slip through a little bit, sucking his bottom lip in to bite it; he doesn't need Alfie thinking that Tommy can be easily unbalanced in this area. “Pol used to cook down old shirts,” Tommy says, because there’s a restlessness in Alfie’s eyes that needs to be caught and kept, caged, quick, before the man has time to decide this is a direction he doesn’t want to move in. “There was a way she’d do it, over days, careful, and at the end of it she’d have made sugar out of them.” Tommy takes his hand out and licks it, shuddering in desire at the close intimate thick taste of Alfie, biting the tip of his middle finger in sudden hunger before slipping his hand back through folds of cloth to find that much-harder cock once more. Wrapping his fingers around its heft one by one, thumb pushing up under the ridge of Alfie’s cockhead as he starts to stroke with a smooth motion of his wrist. “When we didn’t have money to spare for loaf sugar, she’d do it.”

Alfie breathes in slow, out again fast. His nose whistles, slightly, and Tommy wonders if it’s been broken in the past. Must have done, given the men they are. One of Alfie’s hands finds its way between their bodies to cover Tommy’s, over the layers of cloth, and he rubs his palm there briefly before reaching for Tommy’s flies. “It’s the starch, see, yeah,” Alfie rumbles, lifting his head to look up and away as he sets the scene, and Tommy takes advantage of that moment to glance down briefly and watch that crown tattoo disappear between his legs. He gives a little grunt for Alfie to go on, with his speech about starch, with the grip that he’s taken on Tommy’s own unfurling hardness, Alfie’s thumb making intrigued circles in the soft sag of foreskin he finds before settling into a firm tug.

“Yeah, the starch,” Alfie continues, drawing the vowels out as he cups Tommy’s balls, then grasps the long shaft of his cock. “When you cook it long enough and at a high enough temperature, see, all the little molecules what make up the starch, yeah, the laundry starch in the cloth, well, they get excited, don’t they? And they start to bubble up against each other and create little hooks, Tommy, tiny microscopic hooks that link up in ways that they didn’t used to link up, right, when it was starch. Because now after all that cooking what’s left can’t be called starch anymore, because it’s become – _hrrrnnn_ –”

The chemistry lecture by way of Professor Solomons hitches for a moment as Alfie’s thick cock jumps against Tommy’s swift-moving hand to fill it more eagerly, and Tommy holds back a triumphant grin because he’s being polite, for this first in what may come to be an entire class curriculum. He cups his hand over the sticky head of Alfie’s cock to gather more wetness before he returns to his stroking, moving his own hips gently to fuck his leaking cock into the circuit of Alfie’s curiously delicate, strongly kneading grip. “It’s become sugar,” Tommy supplies, shifting his hip, star pupil, offering Alfie a better angle for defilement. “Rag sugar. Is what we called it.”

“Ahhhhrr. Fucking over the loyal customers, is what my mother called it, when she used the starch they paid to be put into their shirts and instead made it into sugar for our tea.” Alfie’s looking right at Tommy now, and he lifts his head slightly, which tips their chins and noses closer to each other. Enough so they can breathe in each others’ breath, the small gasps and groans, can hear the damp panting that's overlaid atop the unctuous obscene sound of hands on wet flesh and words of traded stories that are likely only a third of the truth. 

And Alfie’s nose whistles, and Tommy’s right eyelid stutters in the way it does sometimes since the Somme, and Tommy bares his teeth when he comes, first, with Alfie’s round mouth falling open when he tumbles after. Tommy has to pull back on the instinctive urge to lean forward the few inches it would take for him to slant his own mouth over those flushed-red lips. Because _this_ isn’t _that_, is it. This is shared stories a third of the truth, fabricated sugar and the high bleachy smell of their spunk, and Tommy might use sex and violence indiscriminately but he’s not foolhardy enough (or is it _brave_ enough? a thing to ponder later, alone) to attempt to use emotion. That way lies mess, that way lies madness.

Which is why, of course, as they reclaim their hands and Alfie’s big white handkerchief is pressed into use, Alfie tips his head to the side and moves closer until his dark fat mouth is against Tommy’s, Alfie holding Tommy's filthy hand through the kerchief as he delivers a slick slide of pressure that can’t be called a kiss and yet -- can’t be called anything else. 

Microscopic hooks, maybe. Linking up in ways they didn’t before.


End file.
